There on Neglinnaya
behind the carved doors
on a slab of cold marble--
She splayed her mottled
brawn and tossed
a wood-handled brush
in my direction--
Harder, harder! she screeched,
while I tentatively explored
the massive vistas
of this assemblage of Woman.
She told me the stories of each of her war scars,
how once she'd screamed her way en route
from engine to caboose, knife in hand,
evading rape at the hands of her countrymen.
This was a dynamo. My jaw jammed open
and I followed my new luminary
to the dressing room, avoiding the sight of my
scrawny limbs in a 19th century mirror.
She eased her torpedoes into their silos,
brassieres and petticoats layer on layer,
topped off solidly with a belted brown dress,
an imposing bit of stalinist-era architecture.
Years later, looking back, I wondered if
her bravado was yet another of those layers,
designed to protect the memory of her younger self--
that slender, terrified girl concealed in the center
Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...
popular on this site
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
There is a song clinging like a drowsy bat to the dingy ceiling of a dungeon, deep within the labyrinthine palace of my memories, a melody...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...